The people to whom I went were Jews. The mistress with her dark hair and dark eyes seemed beautiful to me. The four children—three boys and one girl—had all rather reddish hair and freckles, except one of the boys, who was seven years old and idiotic. I had to take the three elder children to school and fetch them home again, to tidy the rooms and to keep the kitchen in order. The lady did the cooking herself. As the idiotic boy did not go to school, he was constantly around me and chattered to me all day long in unintelligible sentences. Often he tore off his clothes and ran about naked. In the beginning I was afraid of him, but I soon noticed that with the exception of a few disagreeable things, to which one had to get used, he was perfectly harmless. Many times during the day he would come and spit into my face. At first I could hardly bear this, but by-and-by I got to know his movements, and quickly turned away when I saw him coming. But worse still than this poor boy was his brother, a boy of twelve years, who had a horrible way of speaking to me, and made me feel as much as possible that I had to obey him. The girl I liked the best.

I had not been in this family for two months when I noticed that the circumstances of the manager were no better than those of my parents. People frequently came to the door and asked me if they could see the manager. But as soon as I announced such a visitor the manager became furious, and told me to tell the people to go to hell. I soon got to know that these were all creditors asking for their money. It had been decided that I should receive eight shillings each month, and I could scarcely wait the day on which my wages fell due. When I left home I only possessed one pair of shoes, and these were almost in shreds. Therefore I thought of getting a new pair of strong shoes and also a small notebook into which I could copy my verses, which, although my work was plentiful, I did not stop writing. But yet I felt as lonely as before. I could easily have made acquaintances, but I did not wish to. The cook at the next house often spoke to me, and told me once that every second Sunday she went out with her sweetheart, who was a corporal; after which she asked me how many times I went out. I told her that I did not go out at all, and at this she looked at me with suspicion.

"Well, I never! then madam very likely allows your sweetheart into her drawing-room to visit you, eh?"

"You impudent person, I have no sweetheart!"

At these words she gave a jeering laugh.

"So it is as far as that already. You are sick of men; I expect one of them has left you in the lurch."

Without answering I turned my back on her, and afterwards we saw each other as little as possible.

I began to hate everybody with whom I came in contact: the baker because he had always some nasty words ready, which made me cast down my eyes and caused the blood to rush to my head; the milkman for the same reason; and the family itself because it was plain that the man was a liar. To my great disappointment I had not received my wages, and so I wrote my verses, which were even more frequent now, on paper bags that had previously contained such things as rice, tea or sugar; and these verses I carefully kept and put away.

One day I had just come back from a walk with the children, and after I had put the youngest child into the cot I went into the kitchen to warm his milk; on entering the kitchen whom should I see but Madam standing calmly in front of the drawer in which I kept my belongings. The drawer was open and my mistress held in her hands one of those paper bags that I knew so well. I was frightened and furious at the same time, but the respect which, at least outwardly, I had for that very indiscreet person prevented me from uttering any angry exclamation. With an amused and astonished face she turned towards me and held up the bag, "You have never told me about these things," she said, seeming not at all troubled at being detected in that mean action. "If you please," I answered, trying to get hold of the bag, "it would not have been worth the while." She still wore the amused smile on her face. "No, let me have it, I am going to show it to my husband."

"For God's sake, no!" I cried in dismay.

"Why not? I like the verses very well."

The whole of my indignation and feelings of revolt immediately vanished. I felt like kneeling down and kissing the hem of her dress; her words had made me very happy, and from that day forward I recognized in her my guardian angel.

The fact that I as yet had not received my wages made me, it is true, feel very sad; but I told myself that this must be the manager's fault, for he ought to have provided her with the money to pay her servant. But she, and of this I was perfectly sure, never even caught sight of a single penny.

My mistress had shown the manager some of the verses discovered in the drawer, but he had laughed and responded that she had better not turn my head altogether since I was a good, hard-working girl, and that there were a far greater number of good poets than good servants in existence. The manager had to go away to Vienna nearly every week. One day when he had gone there as usual and the children were put to bed, Madam came down into the kitchen where I was busily washing up, and said: "Anna, I want to speak to you."

I thought that she was going to pay me my wages at last, and my heart beat faster. She sat down on a kitchen chair, and watched me silently for a while. Suddenly she began again:

"Tell me why you have not been truthful with me?"

I was startled and looked at her in surprise, but my conscience was clear, and so I answered quietly:

"I don't know what you mean, Madam."

She tapped the floor impatiently with her feet, and said:

"No pretences, please. You remember that you told me once that you had no sweetheart, but that poem"—and oh, horror and dismay! she held up a paper bag on which I had written only the day before, and which I had never intended to show to anybody—"that poem does not say the same. Where is he? What profession is he in? Have you got his photo?"

I took my hands out of the hot dish-water, and covered my face.

"Don't be so silly," she continued. "I am a married woman, and you may trust me. Now, come, out with it," and while she said that she looked at me half commandingly, half lovingly. My hands dropped, and I noticed how very red and ugly they were. A new shame overcame me.

"It is true," I said at last.

"That you have got a sweetheart?"

"No; I mean that I have not got one."

"But this poem?" and, greatly puzzled, she looked down at the bag that was smelling of coffee.

"I don't know who he is, nor where he is;" and with sudden courage: "all I know is that he does exist."

"But, pray, where have you seen him, then?"

"I have never seen him at all, except in my thoughts."

"Oh" she exclaimed, and rising with a yawn, she began to leave the kitchen; but at the doorway she turned round once more and said: "As long as you know him only in your thoughts he can do you no harm."

Scarcely had the door closed behind her, when I flew at the drawer, pulled out the bags, and threw them into the fire. I watched until the flickering flames had destroyed every bit of them, then I leaned against the grey wall of the kitchen and wept bitterly.

Oh, for those tears in that grey kitchen! Oh, for those dreams in that grey kitchen! Every moment my heart yearned in incomprehensible longing for him. When would he come? Oh, when? When would he come to take me away, like the princes came in the fairy tales to woo a shepherdess or a kitchen-maid? I felt so sure that we were destined to meet some day, but it seemed a long, long way off. Sometimes a doubting fear would overcome me. How if the picture of my dreams—that picture so proud, so far away—should never turn into a form of flesh and blood, but ever be a dream! At such moments I was weak and foolish. I looked down at my hands, which were so red and ugly from washing-up and scrubbing. If no man would ever love me because of my red and ugly hands, what then? At that question my soul trembled, and tears thronged into my eyes. The next second, however, I smiled at my fears; a line or two out of my poems had fallen into my thoughts. What did it matter that my hands were red and ugly? What did hands matter at all? What had the heart, the mind, the soul of a man or woman in common with his or her hands? The man of my dreams was not a man who would love a girl only for her beauty. No; he would love me for the purity of my thoughts, the chastity of my longing, and for that wonderful part of my being that made me write my poems and dream all day.

Once on washing-day I was standing at the tub, when the door opened and my mother came in.

"Mother!" I cried, "why did you not write that you were coming?"

"We have not heard from you for so long, and when no letter arrived yesterday I became worried, and walked over," she said.

Only then I noticed her tired face and the dust that covered her rough shoes.

"Do you mean to say you walked all that distance?"

"Yes, I did;" and after a little pause; "we must be very careful with our pennies, business is so bad now."

I tried hard to keep back my tears.

"If I only had some money I would gladly give it to you," I said.

My mother shook her head.

"Don't be silly. You need your money yourself. Have you managed to save a little?"

"No," I answered very slowly.

"Let me see, you have been here for a year now"—she began to count by the aid of her fingers—"and your wages are eight shillings a month." She counted again. "That ought to have left you something. I am afraid you are careless, my dear."

Seeing that she looked at me with tender but reproachful eyes I cuddled down beside her.

"No," I said, "I am not careless; but—"

And then I told her that I had never received my real wages; only just enough to buy some very necessary articles of clothing, or to have a pair of shoes mended when it was urgently required. I felt very much ashamed to tell her this, since my own stubbornness was the cause of it all. My mother sat still, and after a long while she said:

"I am glad I have come. I have never been quite at my ease, and wanted to see for myself whether you are happy or not. I have heard of a very good situation, which would be suitable for you. You would have to look after three children, and to help the cook with the scrubbing. The household there is kept on a big scale, and you would learn a great deal."

I remembered the mad boy, who still managed to spit at me occasionally, and the sneers of the older boy.

"I would like to take that place," I said at last.

My mother got up from the linen-basket on which she had been sitting.

"It is easy enough," she replied. "I have arranged for a fortnight's notice with the manager, and if I give it to-day, you are free to go in two weeks' time. I have seen the lady of the other post; she is very kind, and does not mind waiting another three weeks. You might just as well come home for a week. Does that suit you?"

I nodded in silence, and we parted.

When I went into the kitchen later on, my mistress was sitting near the fire as if she had been waiting for me.

"I am sorry your mother wants you to leave me, but I have always said that this was too rough work for you. I hope you will like your new situation."

After the fortnight had passed I again packed up my things into brown paper, but the parcel seemed to be smaller than it had been a year ago. When I took my leave my mistress handed me ten shillings, and promised to send on the rest of the money due to me. Although I knew for a certainty that she would never do it, I thanked her very much for the ten shillings, which seemed to be an enormous sum.